


Hold Fast

by rageprufrock



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Post-ep for 2x08, "Sins of the Father," and won't make much sense at all if you haven't seen it yet.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Hold Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Post-ep for 2x08, "Sins of the Father," and won't make much sense at all if you haven't seen it yet.

Merlin makes a note that he likes Sir Leon, because as he trails Uther and Arthur down the long corridors of Camelot, there's no one around to see Arthur's face, bloodless, or his eyes, wet and red, or the heartbroken set of his mouth.  

"You'll watch him," Uther says, after he settles Arthur at his bed, still in his armor and wearing his grief.  The king levels Merlin with a flat stare.  "You'll stay with him."

"Yes, my lord," Merlin says out loud.  

He wants to shout that it's _always_ he who stays with Arthur, he who watches him, and that Uther is a liar and a hypocrite, just as his son had accused, and that he has broken Arthur's heart and killed hundreds, and that one day, Merlin will free the dragon and Arthur will reign over Albion and together they'll grind the misery of Uther's memory into dust.  Merlin wants to shout that yes, he lied today, but that nothing he ever does is for Uther.  He wants to tell Uther that one day, no one will remember him, that all they will ever know is of Arthur, of Merlin, of Camelot in their care, and that one day, Merlin will make Arthur forget about Uther, too, that Merlin will fill up all the empty spaces Uther has punched into his son.  

But mostly, Merlin feels sick, wrung out.  He watches Arthur stand listlessly, fumble his gloved hand over his other gauntlet, the metal at his wrists, his expression still blurry, and it feels invasive and wrong for Uther to see this.  Arthur is Camelot's prince, and Uther his liege, but Arthur is to be Merlin's _king_, and these chambers are, in a strange way, Merlin's territory, and he wants Uther to leave, immediately, to stay far away.

It's dusk now, the sky outside of Arthur's opened windows fading blue to orange to pink over the skyline of the lower village, over the arching backs of hills and the jagged peaks of mountains.  Camelot is situated in a valley, surrounded by narrow passes and rushing rivers, well-protected, and the castle itself is guarded by knights and a moat, and still it doesn't feel like enough.  Merlin feels dangerous.

"Is that all, sire?" Merlin forces himself to ask, and Uther looks at him sharply, entire conversations floating around their shared silence.  

It feels like an eternity before the king walks out of Arthur's chambers, guards drawing the doors shut as Uther's footsteps echoed down the hall — never sparing Merlin a backwards glance or an answer.

Merlin rushes to the door and locks it, throws the bolt, and because it's Arthur and Merlin's feelings for him are as complicated and changing as his magic, he whispers a spell to seal the entryway further.  He lights the candles, he starts the fire, he watches Arthur carefully from the corner of his eye, and when Arthur finally — _finally_ — stops picking at his own armor, Merlin intervenes.

Merlin's never clumsy with Arthur's armor, not anymore.  He knows it as well as the back woods of Ealdor, as well as he knows Arthur's moods, and he is careful with every buckle and tie, every clasp.  

He murmurs, "Careful," when he helps Arthur lift his heavy mail over his head, and the fact that Arthur doesn't snap at him to stop being a ninny is a terrible sign.  Arthur doesn't say anything at all, just stares out a window now with a hollow expression, and Merlin tries to talk to him through the skin:_ I'm sorry_, he says, stripping Arthur of his padding, _it shouldn't be like this for you_, he means, when he runs his hands over Arthur's shoulders, his chest, searching for any injuries.  

Merlin touches the back of Arthur's neck, and he feels a surge of dizzying fury, nauseating fear at the memory of Morgause, the axe, of Arthur on his knees and the blade gleaming against the nob of his spine.  He remembers feeling the heat of his magic, furious and barely banked just under his skin, the chanting desperation in his head, and now — safe, finally safe — Merlin closes his palm over the skin there, just for a moment, just to reassure himself.

It's too early for sleep, but Merlin ignores it, draws the curtains closed, shutters the windows and shoves Arthur down onto the bed, strips him of his shirt and boots and hose.  He's trying to pull the blankets over him when Arthur's hand reaches out, fists in Merlin's shirt, and drags him down, too, onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs.

"_Merlin_," Arthur says, but it's mostly a rasp, words hacked out of something wooden in the base of Arthur's spine.

Merlin hates it, _hates it_, when Arthur sounds like that.  It makes him give in so quickly, and so desperate to do anything to fix it that he feels his magic pushing again, underneath his palms, and he drags Arthur closer to him, drags him across the bed until Arthur's face is buried in his shoulder, and Merlin can hear his breaths, ragged.  

"It's okay," he lies.  He rubs his hands along Arthur's back, along the familiar line of his spine, the comforting valley between his shoulders.  "It's okay, Arthur."

"My mother," Arthur manages, but most of the consonants are lost into Merlin's skin, and Merlin lets out a breath, desperate, feels all the heavy curtains around Arthur's bed draw closed.  His magic is going wild, reckless, and Merlin feels like he could set oceans on fire right now, raze entire kingdoms; he thinks he could do anything, that he would do anything to make Arthur stop shaking like this in his arms.

But all he can do is say, "She loves you," and "She said she's proud of you," and "Arthur, it's okay — it's fine," and "She _loves you_."

In the morning, Arthur won't ask how the curtains around his bed were closed, or why Merlin is sleeping in his bed.  He won't wake Merlin, he'll get up on his own, and when Merlin starts to put away the discarded clothes from last night, the armor he'd left strewn all over the room, Arthur will be framed in a window, composed again, another wall built over another ruin.

But it's hours until morning, now, and Merlin stays, clutches at Arthur as tightly as he can.  One day, maybe Merlin will set seas aflame, turn castles into rubble in Arthur's name, and maybe then it will be what Arthur needs — but for now, he holds on, holds fast.


End file.
